An Ending, A Beginning
by DavidTennantIsMyGod
Summary: My version of the famous pool scene. Sherlock/Watson slash, because I love it. MoriMori, my true love, is toyed with. Warning: contents include John BAMF-ing his way to Sherlock's heart.


**A/N: well, here we are. I wrote this quite a while ago, and then went back and cleaned it up. A lot. Pretty happy with it now. Fluffy fluffy fluff fluff, yays! I love Sherlock/John, and I'm nearly convinced it's canon. **

**Sherlock, however much I would pay for his beautiful mind and body, is unfortunately not mine.**

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><p>John stood facing the grinning Moriarty, Sherlock's crumpled body between them.<p>

"Wot, a sad face?" Moriarty pouted, "Do you miss widdle Shewlock?"

John's lip curled, though tears stung his eyes. "Will Shewlock even we_member_ widdle John?" Moriarty kept mocking, poking Sherlock's still form with his toe. "Of cowse, Shewlock dussent caaawe for annywone, he won't wemember **you**!" This last word was spit at him with loathing. "Wot, are you angwy? Did you _wuv_ him?"

"OF COURSE I LOVED HIM!" John roared, the dam inside of him breaking. He panted heavily, rage emanating from his body. "How could I not?" he added in a whisper.

"Oooo," Moriarty cooed, raising his eyebrows, spite in his words. "_Now_ we're getting somewhere. Since _when_?"

_Forever._ "Soon after I met him." John said shortly, fighting down the panic rising in his stomach. He had to check on Sherlock, he _had_ to, he couldn't tell if his friend was alive or dead.

"Awwwwww," Moriarty said, devilment written across his face, "Isn't that cute. The widdle war hero and the brilliant sociopaff." All the humor left Moriarty's expression. "I could just cry."

And John suddenly realized: the snipers were gone. All the spotters- gone. He felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. He barely pulled the phone out, checking that Moriarty was looking the other way.

Took care of gunmen.

Do what you have to.

Lestrade.

But it could wait. John wanted to end this slowly. He could hear Moriarty, as if from a distance, still nattering away.

"Did you ever have someone?" John interrupted midway.

Moriarty stopped dead, looking at him curiously. "What do you mean?"

"Did you ever love anyone." John clarified.

Moriarty studied John's impassive face, searching, but finding nothing. _You're wrong, _John thought, pain clenching his guts. _It's not impassive, it's shocked, it's broken, it's dead._

In a split second decision, John rushed forward, leaping over Sherlock's body and pinning Moriarty to the ground. Moriarty laughed, and then, when John wasn't dead, shock filled his features. With a snarl John grabbed some rope sitting off to the side and tied the murderer to a pole, tightly knotting his hands together and wrapping the makeshift chain around and around. "Now answer the question."

Moriarty spoke, haltingly, looking slightly ashamed, a little nervous now that his snipers were gone. "When I… was sixteen, I met a boy. His name was….was Robert. He was the most beautiful person I'd ever known. He was pristine, perfect. But I hated who he was. We were together for a while…. But then… I didn't want to risk him getting involved in…. what I do. I didn't want him….broken."

John's innards contracted nauseously at his words, a sneer coming to his lips, all the while that desperate sinking feeling growing inside of him. Of course something like Moriarty would want someone just for their beauty. John wondered why, even though Moriarty was tied to a pole at John's mercy, the psychopath answered the questions. "Did he still love you when you left?"

"…..Yes."

"Okay." John took a deep breath, hatred pulsing through his veins. "I want you to close your eyes, and I'm going to tell you a story. And I don't have a gun. I'm not going to try anything."

Moriarty again searched John's blank, broken eyes, and nodded, saying offhandedly, "I don't have anything better to do."

John looked at Moriarty, and no guilt filled his self like it usually did. One thought filled his mind: _He had to get to Sherlock. _He cleared his throat. "You may need to answer a few questions along the way. And no interruptions, whatever happens. First, I need to know where you and Robert would go for dates." John's voice stung with sarcasm and hate. Moriarty could tell John was playing some sort of game with him, but he didn't know what sort. He decided he'd play along.

"Clubs," Moriarty murmured, losing himself in thoughts he hadn't perused in a decade or more. They were disgusting, full of unclean, stupid humans and bar fights.

John began.

"You and Robert are going to a club. It's a not an abnormal night. You're walking hand in hand, and he's looking at you like he's never seen anything so wonderful." John paused, checking if his voice was still steady, almost knowing it wasn't, hoping it was. He was counting on the scathing sarcasm to cover up the shaking. "You go to the club, have a few drinks, dance a bit. It's the best night of your life. After a couple hours, Robert turns to you with a twinkle in his eyes, and asks you home. You couldn't resist. You head back to his place, a little tipsy. You're just getting started when he looks you square in the eyes and asks, 'Do you love me?'

"You're dumbstruck. You have no clue how to answer. You search yourself, trying to find feelings." All the while, Moriarty had sat more and more upright, a frown wrinkling his smooth forehead. John wondered again why the genius was still listening, still answering. Silently, John picked up the gun by Sherlock's side, and tried not to look at his friend, his beautiful, brilliant friend's unmoving body. "You don't find the feelings. You see desire, you see beauty, but where you see love, you see your love of torture, of games, of outsmarting idiots. And Robert, the closest thing you have to a friend, looks you in the eyes, and you can't lie. 'No,' you whisper, looking away, 'I don't.' You feel, more than see, Robert's hurt features. 'What,' he says quietly, 'Do you love, then?' And again you can't lie. 'I love….I love manipulating people, outmaneuvering them,' you admit. 'I love watching them turn in circles, confused, until I kill them.'

"He looks at you blankly, and stands up and leaves the room." John's in front of Moriarty now, looking at the murderer's face, and John was surprised to see that, while he was distracted by the gun, the psychopath's face had started to crumple, losing its insane edge for just a second. John leveled the pistol. "You sigh, closing your eyes, and laying down on the couch, trying not to think about the loss of the only friend, if you could call this companionship that, you ever had. You hear him enter the room again, but you don't open your eyes. 'I'm sorry,' you mutter, the only apology you've ever given. 'Not as much as I am,' Robert says, his voice shaking. "But….you don't belong. I love you, I really do. But….I have to do this." You don't want to open your eyes, don't want to see him again.. A second too late, your brain, your brilliance kicks in, and you realize…."

John took one last glance over to Sherlock, and mustered his strength.

"..you realize the reason Robert left the room. And for the first time since you were a child, you're afraid."

And John pulled the trigger.

He stared down at what was once Moriarty, a sense of accomplishment and dread welling up inside him. With a jolt he heard something.

"John." Sherlock moaned, twitching slightly.

"Oh, my God, Sherlock," John said breathlessly, kneeling by his friend's side, "I wasn't sure if you were alive or dead. How much blood have you lost?"

Sherlock coughed feebly, and looked up at John, his eyes starting to cloud. "So… you…. I mean…. I could hear…." Sherlock stopped, trying to find his words, "…You love me?"

John bit his lip, tears welling in his eyes, and softly cradled Sherlock's face as the detective passed out, his hand gently holding John's.

"Hey," Lestrade rubbed John's shoulder, "Go and get a bit of sleep. I'll watch him."

John rubbed his eyes blearily, and stumbled out into the hallway of the hospital, collapsing in a chair. Nearly two pints of blood transfusion and some serious surgery later, Sherlock was in a stable condition, but hadn't awoken for a few days. John had been at his bedside since, taking small catnaps when Lestrade was available, and was exhausted.

He curled up in a puffy armchair, sighing deeply. Sherlock had been mumbling unintelligibly under his breath lately, and the doctors thought that might mean he would be waking up soon, but so far, nothing. John passed his hand over his face, and fell asleep.

"John, John," rough hands shook him awake, unlike earlier, and Lestrade's voice was urgent. "John, he's calling for you."

In a flash the doctor was awake, and hurrying towards Sherlock's door. He and Lestrade came inside, John rushing over to the pale, thin man in the bed, Lestrade closing the door quietly. John took Sherlock's hand, concern in every line of his face.

Sherlock's hand contracted in John's, and he muttered, eyes still shut, "Don't…. don't go…. John…John come back…..JOHN!"

His ice blue eyes flew open, already trained on John's face bent over him. "John."

"Yes, Sherlock. I'm here."

"I have to tell you something." There was urgency in Sherlock's voice and eyes, and he gripped John's hand ever tighter. He started to say something, his mouth moving soundlessly, then he cleared his throat, his eyes desperate to get it out. "I don't know why I know this, I don't know how it happened, and you know-" an irritated scowl crossed over Sherlock's still exhausted face "- how I hate not knowing, but I think….I know, I- I-"

John looked questioningly at his friend.

"I'm horribly romantically attached to you." Sherlock finished lamely, cheeks pink.

John froze, shock registering in all his features. Thoughts raced through his brain, his eyes growing wider, until he burst out laughing, and he crumpled into a heap on Sherlock's stomach. He could feel Sherlock's hand running through his hair, his other hand still holding John's.

John pulled himself together, and looked up into Sherlock's eyes, which were, for once, somewhat unguarded. "I.. you know already." he croaked out, still chuckling, smiling widely. Sherlock returned his smile, that slight blush still in his cheeks, and hesitantly reached out and cupped John's chin in his hand. But John was already there, an inch from Sherlock's face, his eyes the softest the sociopath had ever seen them.

"Thank you," John breathed, and, slowly, he leaned forward and kissed Sherlock.

Lestrade walked out the door quietly after Sherlock had spoken, realizing the need for privacy, and turned to his team, which was waiting out in the hallway.

"Donovan," he said softly, beckoning the dark haired woman over, "You're not allowed to call Sherlock those names anymore. He does feel."

"He does?" Donovan replied, looking incredulous.

"Yes," Lestrade answered, walking away to get a coffee, "He can love."

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><p><strong>reviews are rainbows. hugs are even better in my time of crisis. love from the slasher, kitty <strong>


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